


Sparkkeep

by AltraViolet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Slight World-Building, Vignette, mild adventure gore, objects of import, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltraViolet/pseuds/AltraViolet
Summary: Secret Solenoid gift for Anefi/decepticon-propaganda on tumblr! Why do one prompt when you can do all four? A series of vignettes surrounding a special object Drift leaves for Ratchet at his clinic in the Dead End.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Starscream/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	Sparkkeep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anefi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anefi/gifts).



> Happy Solenoid, Anefi! Wishing you all the best in 2021! I challenged myself to do all four of your prompts in one fic. I hope the story finds you well and you enjoy! \^_^/

FOUR MILLION YEARS AGO; CYBERTRON

.:We leave in ten minutes, Deadlock:.

.:Yeah, yeah. I'll be at the rendezvous point in time:.

Drift crouched in the alley behind the clinic. The Dead End smelled as bad as he remembered. The road was broken and scarred with various liquids of dubious origin. The clinic's windows had the glimmer of cheap shielding. No matter. He'd joined the movement that was going to scour every Dead End from the face of Cybertron and replace it with something _good._ Drift brushed the new Decepticon sigil on his chest. His spark chamber still hurt from the branding ceremony. They'd cut a big square from it and it was much more painful than Drift had let on. He could feel his spark light leaking out, touching the inside of his frame. He pushed the feeling away. The other Decepticons said it didn't take long to get used to.

When no one was looking, Drift had snatched one of his spark chamber scraps from the refuse heap. He'd been carrying it around for a while. It always tugged at the back of his processor, like he knew what he had to do with it but he _didn't_ know how. Now was as good a time as any. Once he got to the rendezvous point, he was going to be shipped to the other side of the planet for training.

Drift stuck his tongue out, carving as deeply into the smooth metal as he could with a clawed fingertip.

When he finished, he tilted the scrap, letting the shavings fall. He smoothed the glyphs' sharpest edges with his thumb. Drift parted a fingertip. Carefully, he filled the fresh etching with his innermost energon. It sparkled and glowed. Drift took a deep breath and opened his chest. He shoved the scrap into his spark chamber and willed his spark to burn as hot as it could. Eyes pressed closed, he thought fiercely, _you helped me when I was at my lowest. You don't know what that meant to me. You don't know how much I needed just **one** person to believe in me..._

Drift held the scrap there for as long as he could, until his spark ached and his hand was burned. He pulled the piece out, his chest snapping shut with relief. Had it worked? He tilted the scrap back and forth.

His innermost energon had set and sunk into the carved words. He cupped the metal in his hand, shadowing it, and brought it to his eye. There! It had worked! The words glowed on their own, imbued with a bit of his spark. He waved his hand over it. No field, not big enough to register as a life form. But a piece of _him_ nonetheless.

The glyphs weren't fine or curling or beautiful, like what a proper sparkkeep was supposed to have. Hell, the metal wasn't even the right _shape._ But it was the best he could do. It was the only thing he had to give. He was pretty sure Ratchet would recognize it for what it was anyway. Drift peeked into the window of the clinic. A few mechs sat inside, waiting patiently, bleeding from the joints or the face or the chest. He sneaked further back behind the building.

.:Two minutes, Deadlock:.

.:I'm coming:. he hissed back impatiently.

Drift tapped at the window. He wasn't a great hacker or anything, but it wasn't like a free clinic in the Dead End could afford the most expensive window shields. After a few seconds of patterned taps, part of the shield deactivated. It was the back room where Ratchet had fixed him up. The seat he'd sat was smeared with blood, the same pattern he'd seen when he had woken up. Drift flicked the piece of metal through the window. It careened off a countertop and landed in the middle of the seat.

Deadlock stepped away from the window, transformed, and drove off to war.

~~

FOUR MILLION YEARS AGO, PLUS 3 YEARS; CYBERTRON

Tiny patters of feet. Delicate sniffs of the air. A friendly spark pulse approaching. Soundwave onlined his optics and sat up.

“I found something interesting in the remains of the Dead End,” said Ravage, red eyes bright. His words were muffled by the object in his mouth. He jumped gracefully onto the recharge slab. Ravage dropped the object into Soundwave's waiting hand. “It speaks.”

Soundwave cradled it in his palm. It hummed with the faintest whisper, vibrating so minutely even _his_ audials could barely pick it up. “It speaks,” confirmed Soundwave.

Ravage stretched and settled himself on Soundwave's lap. “What does it say?”

Soundwave pet him gently and concentrated. “It is spark energy.” He rubbed the scrap between his thumb and forefinger. “Amplifying...” The message spooled out for him, twining into his antenna and glossing across his processor. It was short and simple, but it spoke volumes. “You found this in the Dead End?”

“In the rubble of the clinic,” said Ravage. He flexed a paw, a gesture that lent the subtext of _uneven/dangerous footing_ to his words. “Is it a message?”

“In a way. The mech who made this was desperate. He had suffered greatly.” Soundwave clenched the scrap. “This is what we're fighting for. _This,_ Ravage.”

“Hmm.” Ravage flicked his tail. “I don't trust Megatron. I don't trust his plans.”

“I know,” said Soundwave. “But mechs shouldn't be reduced to scratching out the only meaningful parts of their lives on scraps.”

Ravage tucked his head onto his paws. “Its scent is strong. If it has no value, we should get rid of it.”

“Agreed. We will honor it this night. I will bury it tomorrow.” Soundwave amplified its embedded spark frequency and played it respectfully into the cool night air. It hovered, wave-like strands of silver. They dipped up and down, the same short message over and over, rippling with shadows of purple and blue.

Ravage sniffed. It smelled like ordinary desperation to him. But it was important to Soundwave, and that was a good a reason as any to remain still. Ravage tucked into Soundwave's protective embrace. Emotions washed through Soundwave's field: reflected anguish and despair, blossoming into hope and wanton gratitude.

It warmed the chilly room. They sat quietly, listening to the echos of a mech whose life had undoubtably been hard and undoubtably ended far too early.

~~

EIGHT YEARS AGO; IACON

Lord Starscream of Iacon couldn't use a piece of his _own_ spark chamber, of course. That was ludicrous. But he had spent a pretty shanix for a badgeless scout to go through the rubble and find him pre-war scraps. The scout returned with three: the first a faded blue, the second covered in so much rust it probably needed a biohazard box, and the third a scratched, soured white. The third had a spark signature.

It was an unusual piece of metal. Starscream turned it in his fingers. _Is it a sparkkeep?_ It was charged with spark light. Even a protoform could tell that. But it was all the wrong shape. In fact, if he mentally sharpened up the corners rounded by age, it was definitely a Decepticon badge scrap. “Hmph. Some poor slob who undoubtably threw his life away to Megatron's war.”

Starscream lightly scraped it with his fingertips. A layer of grime scratched off. He curled his upper lip in distaste. Filthy or not, it was what he needed.

It had been a long time since he'd been in a lab, sure, but this would require only the most rudimentary knowledge of biophysics. He laid the casing piece in a glass vessel and bathed it in a weak acid. The grime wore away. He rinsed it and dried it under ultraviolet light. The words, faded by time, were a little easier to read.

Starscream squinted at it.

_Ah._

Double fortune. The pitiably scratched-in glyphs were _exactly_ what Starscream wanted to say to Wheeljack.

A quick zap rejuvenated the spark resonance charge. Starscream held it up. That poor, illiterate mech of the past, who'd scratched his very being into this piece of his own frame, was no doubt dead a thousand times over. But he was still useful to Starscream, which was the most important thing any mech could be.

That old tradition of peeling and shaping the lifeblood layers of a Titan and presenting them to a lov- well, to someone _important_ \- had gone by the wayside during the war. On account of all the Titans leaving and, of course, the war. This was no Titanblood-shot piece of metal carefully cut into thin loops and bent into a sphere to resemble a spark, but he was pretty sure Wheeljack would recognize it for what it was anyway. It had the spark energy. It had the _general idea._ If there was anything Wheeljack was good at, it was general ideas.

Starscream threw his shoulders back and walked into the next lab. “Wheeljack, I-”

“Hi, Starscream!” Wheeljack's head popped out from behind a behemoth... thing. Wheeljack wore a face shield and thick metal gloves. He held something glowing in a pair of tongs. As he moved, the glowing thing left a trail of light. And so did his arms. In fact, the whole room was slowly moving, and there was a nauseating pulse of energy coming from the thing.

“Ugh.” Starscream reset his optics. His lines pounded in his helm. A processor ache was settling in. “What- what _are_ you doing?”

“Oh! Don't mind the quantum recalibrations. Trying to get the space bridge's core realigned so it's more accurate!” Wheeljack's biolights glowed cheerily as he whacked the glowing thing against the processor-ache-inducing thing.

Starscream gripped the little piece of metal tightly. Was it just him, or was it pulling at his fingers? As if trying to jump out of his hand? “I can come back later-”

“Oh, no no, stay! You gotta see this baby when it powers up!” Wheeljack slammed the glowing thing into place and the space bridge core began to spin. Wheeljack backed away from it, towards Starscream, and tossed his gloves down. “You might feel a little pull in your chest,” he said, casting off his face shield. “It's tuned to spark energy so that-”

“Ahh!” Starscream jolted forward toward the space bridge core, arm first, as the bit of metal in his hand flew towards it. His feet spat sparks as he was dragged across the floor. _“Wheeljack!”_

“Whoa!” Wheeljack dove and clamped his arms around Starscream's waist. “What're you holding??”

“Just a little- gift-!”

Wheeljack jammed his shoulder into Starscream's middle and shoved him back.

“Oof-!”

“Let go of it!” said Wheeljack. 

“But-”

“Just do it! We'll get it when the core finishes recalibrating!”

The piece of metal burst from between Starscream's fingers and slammed into the spinning space bridge core. Its edges glowed for a second. The inscription lit up. Starscream wondered if Wheeljack had seen it. But the mech was bent over, frame shaking, preventing Starscream from tumbling forward. With an unceremonious _tink!_ the metal scrap shimmered and disappeared. The space bridge core slowed and came to a stop.

“Uh... heh heh.” Wheeljack awkwardly removed his arms from around Starscream and stepped back. “Sorry about that. It must've had a component of spark energy to it.”

“It did,” said Starscream crisply. Now he'd have to find something _else_ worthy of gifting to Wheeljack. Something _else_ that was the perfect combination of “the before times” and “heartfelt sentiment” and echoed the old gift-giving ceremony. As if he had the time, what with running a newly reborn planet!

“I wonder where it went,” said Wheeljack. His face brightened and he crossed the room to tap at monitors. The space bridge core began to spin again. “Well, would you look at that! Clear across the galaxy.”

“Of course it did.” Starscream sighed. Another nauseating wave went through his processor. _The hell I'm staying here._ “I will see you at another, more convenient time,” he said as he walked out.

“Not if I see you first!” called Wheeljack.

Starscream permitted himself a tiny smile. Wheeljack was worth finding another gift for. He'd just have to start over again.

~~

TWO YEARS AGO; QUION QUADRANT

“I'm _pretty sure_ a treasure chest in the middle of a room full of T cogs and dismembered parts is cursed,” said Fulcrum.

“Nah!” Misfire plunked down and inspected the treasure chest. The lock was new, though the chest itself was made of old organic stuff. He poked at its seams, searching for weaknesses. His wings bounced with excitement.

“This is what we get for entering an abandoned, squishy space ship with a big red X on it,” said Fulcrum. He stood with hunched shoulders, trying not to brush against any of the strung-up bits of Cybertronian anatomy. The walls were painted a bright, gory pink. “Either this room belongs to someone who _hates_ us a lot, or _loves us too much.”_

Misfire wedged his fingertip into the lock. “Nah, you're just being supercilious.” 

“Do you mean _superstitious?”_

“I mean _chill out._ Free treasure!” The top of the chest flung open. Coins poured out of it, glistening sickly in the light of the nearby star. Misfire dove into the pile face-first. “Look at all these! Are they prewar shanix? They're oval-y instead of octagonal.”

“I don't think those are coins,” said Fulcrum. He picked one up. “They're opercula, from the top of the brain stem.”

“Ooh, fancy word,” said Misfire.

“If your head gets separated from your frame, the operculum slams shut to protect your brain module,” said Fulcrum.

“How do _you_ know that?”

“K-Class get them uninstalled so we don't blow if we lose our heads.”

“Ah,” said Misfire. He held up one of the ovals. “Huh. It _does_ have blood on it.”

“Imagine how many Cybertronians that chest represents,” said Fulcrum. He stifled a shudder.

“Meh. They were probably jerks.” Misfire rummaged through the pile. The opercula _tinked_ together. “Huh. This one is different from the others. It feels kinda like... a person? And it doesn't have any blood on it.”

“It's cursed. Can we go now?” Fulcrum looked out the cracked windows. The nearby star glowed a sickening green. Planetary debris swirled around it. The WAP floated nearby, listing. “We left Spinister alone with the autopilot and I don't know if that was a good idea.”

“It's an autopilot,” said Misfire, hauling himself to his feet. “It's _supposed_ to be left alone.”

“It's _not_ alone,” pointed out Fulcrum.

“Oh, right.” Misfire flapped his wings. “Let's blow this joint!”

“Did you put that thing back?” asked Fulcrum. “I'm serious. I don't want any weird, dead stuff coming back with us to the WAP.”

“Yup,” said Misfire. He smiled, discreetly tucking the thing into his subspace compartment.

~~

NOW; LOST LIGHT

“Five shiny Rodimus stars,” said Drift smugly. He fanned his cards out on the round tabletop. As if to celebrate his victory, the mechs sitting up at the bar roared. The game on the overhead monitors flashed. Some team or other had won.

Ratchet rolled his eyes and threw his cards down. Fulcrum did the same, but with more chin. Misfire flung himself back in his chair, almost smacking into a service drone. He dramatically threw his arm over his eyes. _“Aww!_ I've never lost so much before coming to the _Lost Light!_ Wait, is that where it got its name from?”

“Pay up,” said Drift. He grinned at Ratchet. “Or do you want to pay me _later?”_

Ratchet gave him an unamused look and tossed down a bar voucher. Fulcrum scrounged around his subspace compartment and, to everyone's surprise including his own, produced an alarmingly large bullet. He set it warily on the table. Misfire patted his chest and sides, frowning.

“C'mon, Misfire,” said Drift. “You're not getting out of it this time.”

“I have something! I do!” After another few seconds, Misfire pulled a shanix from his hip. It _clinked_ onto the tabletop. _“There!”_

Drift swept his hands across the table, gathering his prizes. As his fingers brushed the shanix, he felt something. A shiver, a current. A tiny zap of electricity that felt like his own aura. “Huh?” Drift cocked his head.

It wasn't a shanix.

Drift's jaw dropped. He plucked the scrap of metal from the table and stared at it. His lips moved as he read the words scratched into its pitted surface. Finally, he managed, “Misfire, where did you _get_ this!”

“Oh, you know,” said Misfire, waving dismissively. “Haunted, abandoned space ship in the Quion Quadrant. Big red X. Typical Scavenger adventure booty.”

Fulcrum glared at Misfire. “The operculum! I told you to leave that where it was! No wonder we've had such bad luck since then.”

Misfire gave him a sheepish grin. “It, uh, must've tucked itself away somehow.” He straightened in his chair. “And we've _always_ had bad luck.”

“It's not an operculum,” said Drift. He passed the scrap of metal to Ratchet. 

Ratchet blinked as its spark energy played across his hands. He glanced at Drift, then back to the scrap. “It's not an operculum,” he agreed. 

“Did you ever get it?” asked Drift softly.

Ratchet held it close to his face, then pulled it away a bit, squinting. The metal had been gouged by teeth, scraped, and worn over millions of years. Its edges were uneven and its gentle curve had flattened. When the words finally came into focus, Ratchet's expression softened into a smile. “I did.”

**tHANk yOu**


End file.
